


Erase My Pain with Your Body: Vignettes from the Torture Chamber

by lysanatt



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Wincest - Freeform, content: descriptions of explicit torture, content: romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-10
Updated: 2012-09-10
Packaged: 2017-11-13 23:38:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/509007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lysanatt/pseuds/lysanatt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The summer is hotter than usual. Dean suffers; the intense heat reminds him of a time in his life he'd rather forget. Luckily Sam is with him. It isn't that Sam is doing anything, really, but he manages to help Dean cope with the torture he endured in Hell anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Erase My Pain with Your Body: Vignettes from the Torture Chamber

**Erase My Pain with Your Body: Vignettes from the Torture Chamber**

 

**1\. Sunburned**

_The stench is overwhelming. The smell of charcoal and burning lard is sickening. He cannot throw up; there's a scream stuck in his throat, choking him. His silent cries disappear into the inferno. His feet are burning. He thrashes wildly in his restraints. He can no longer feel the spikes impaling his ankles. The pain from the fat sizzling cruelly on the burning flesh that was once his feet feels much worse._

_It takes a long time for the fire to burn out. When they pull him from the pyre, charred bones fall from the scorched stumps that are left._

 

"Dean?" Sam puts a hand on his shoulder, rubbing it gently. "You were dreaming. Bad?"

"No." Dean looks away. Sammy doesn't need to know. He cannot. Must not. Dean looks up at the cruel, clear sun. It has moved. Its yellow disc burns hotly. He can see it on his skin already: flames and charcoal and scabs. He reaches down and rubs his naked foot, whole and clean and smooth. He feels sick.

"You shouldn't stay in the sun for so long, you've got the beginning of a sunburn," Sam preaches and Dean returns to this reality, rolling his eyes at his brother.

"I _sat_ in the shadows," he argues. "The sun moved."

"Oh, because it never does that. Must come as a surprise for you, then." Sam puts a cool hand on Dean's neck. "Let's go inside. I have some aloe. That should do the trick."

Dean finally feels awake. "So now I need to moisturize? How gay do you need me to be?"

"I'll let you know," Sam grins wickedly, seemingly not worried about Dean's state at all. "But gay enough to have you naked while I treat that skin of yours to a bit of relief."

 

**2\. Broken**

_It's a good day. Dean smiles at Alastair with broken teeth and lips which do no longer resemble lips. He rides the waves of pain as wheels turn and his shoulder is torn from its socket. It's a good day. He doesn't scream. There is a familiarity with this pain that makes the torture bearable. He focusses on it, lets it wash him away. He grasps it like a lifeline, following the icy-hot torment, calm as his thighs are separated from his hip bone._

_Only when they light the fire underneath the metal rack he lies upon does he scream._

 

He tries to pull off the memory like a sheet that has tangled itself around his waist and legs. He feels tired, exhausted. The heat is excruciating. Perhaps if the AC actually worked he could manage. Dean stares into the dingy motel wall. The paint is peeling off in faded, brown flakes. He feels so tense, unable to move without hurting. Helpless. He can't find the energy to do anything about it.

"You okay?" Sam enters in a puff of hot air; the sun outside is burning relentlessly. It is as if Sam pulls in the heat with him. "We need to get out of here," Sam demands. "They can't get the air con fixed until Thursday."

Dean doesn't speak, he merely lets out a pained groan, trying to get out of bed.

"Tense?" Sam asks and sits down next to him. "Let me."

Sam's long fingers and large hands feel like soothing rain. They are remarkably relaxing as they dance down Dean's back, cool as they loosen hard knots in his shoulders. He moans and forgets for a while when Sam moves his hands further down, kneading and stroking.

Dean is still sweating when Sam is done with him.

 

**3\. Impala in the Desert**

_The desert is burning and Dean faints for the second time that morning. Constant sunstroke. The cage is but bars in the simmering, lonely hell of sun and sand. No roof. No shadow. No water. Just Dean and the scorching, flaming, omnivorous sun above him. His skin is peeling off, leaving open, pus-filled wounds on his body. The pus coagulates and burns._

_A month? A year? He doesn't know. He doesn't want to know._

_He doesn't know how long it takes before he gnaws his wrist raw to drink his own blood like a desperate animal. At least it's wet._

 

Rolled-down windows. Wind in his hair. Doing 90, his baby hot and willing. Rob Zombie's _Supercharger Heaven_ blasting from the stereo. The roar from the big-block V8. His arm on the backrest, on Sam's shoulder, Sam's hand high on his thigh. The heat simmering. The long straight road in front of them. Mountains. Blue sky. Freedom.

Sam lets go of him and reaches for a can of Coke that lies in the sun rolled up in a piece of wet newspaper. He unwraps it and hands the can to Dean, open. It's ice cold.

He gulps down half of it, cherishing the sensation of the cool drink. "How'd you do that?" Dean asks, frowning for a second. "Fuck, that's damned clever."

"Evaporation. When water evap-"

"Thank you, Professor Winchester."

"And you _could_ slow down a bit."

"Not in this lifetime. My baby and me-"

" _Dean_!"

"Oooh, bitchface." He does it anyway, eases the pressure on the pedal.

Dean hands the Coke to Sam who drinks the rest of it. His lips are wet and the brief kiss they share (Dean is trying to drive, isn't he?) is cool and soft and tastes of _more_.

Dean laughs. At everything and nothing.

 

**4\. Silver Liquid**

_Hell is not a red hot iron rod. Hell is made of words. Nothing beats the excruciating, blinding pain. The iron rod that Alastair uses on Dean's orifice, in him, isn't as painful... Not when words can tear him apart like this. Alastair's favorite pastime._

_"I love this," Alastair hums, "ruining you for him, you sick fuck. If he knew about your perverted desires, he'd beg me to keep you here forever."_

_"You lack imagination," Dean taunts. Self-defence. A mistake, he knows._

_As it turns out, Alastair's imagination lacks nothing. Dean has never before been forced to drink boiling lead._

 

"Are you with me?" Sam whispers, pausing, holding himself up on one arm. A drop of sweat trickles down his jaw and falls on Dean's naked chest. "Am I boring you?" He raises an eyebrow.

Dean finds his way back into his own body. He shakes his head, as if to clear it. "Sorry," he manages. "It was just the-" He stops. He's not ready to let Sam enter him. He's not willing to let Sam see the torment that he relives on a daily basis. It is still too painful, too traumatic. He knows he doesn't sound like himself, either, like _the_ Dean Winchester, Divine God of Sex.

Sam smiles softly, as if he understands without explanation. He's probably been at it with the self-help books again.

"I could suck you off," Dean offers, his old smile back on his face. He likes that, the familiarity, the boring old cock-sucking routine. It makes him feel safe. He's lost the urge to experiment much. Predictability, yup, that works. Especially with Sam's hot mouth around his dick while he in turn has Sam's cock rammed down his throat. He likes that. Sam's cock in his mouth, Sam's come on his tongue.

 

**5\. Volcano**

_He is burning inside. He can feel his heart disappear, little by little the fire eats him up. It's leaving him empty and at the same time filled with brimstone and sulphur and magma. His intestines become a volcano, brimming with bile and disgust. He vomits lava._

_"Don't! God! Stop! God, no more! No more!"_

_His screaming, begging victim is stretched out on the metal frame that Dean knows so intimately. Over a roaring fire he burns the condemned. It is the first time he tortures a human soul._

_His tears burn salt on his cheeks as he finally breaks._

 

Fall is late. The small cabin at the lake feels like a sanctuary from the heat. It's primitive, different from the motels they usually stay at. A bed. One. It's enough.

When Dean wakes up he can sense a change in the air; there is this crisp, cool wind that announces the approaching change of seasons. Beside him, Sam is awake.

"Morning, sleepyhead." Sam turns a bit and kisses Dean lightly. The kiss grows and becomes larger, fuller, richer.

Dean moans as Sam's tongue slides into his mouth, filling him with a fire he likes. Oh, he likes it. He breathes in Sam's warmth, his scent, his being. It's a quiet, chilly morning, but the warmth of their bodies, their heated strokes and thrusts are enough. Dean is on fire. His body soaks up Sam's caresses, dries out his kisses. Somehow he finds himself eased back into the bed, opened up with hands and tongue. This time he does not protest when Sam slides inside him. This is what he needs. Sam.

Sam takes him in the same way he does everything else: carefully, thoughtfully, lovingly.

"More," Dean moans, eager for harder, faster. "Don't stop! God, Sam! More!"

This time Sam doesn't stop to ask if he's all right. He doesn't stop to look searchingly at Dean, or to look worried or even afraid. No, he picks up pace: short, hard thrusts inside Dean, touching places that make him cry out in pleasure. Dean's moans become short and hard too, torn into smaller pieces by his arousal. He moves with Sam, against him, pulling him closer. Dean rakes his nails down Sam's chest and the pained whimper he lets out makes Dean lose it. Sam enjoys it; Dean can feel it in the way he hardens even more inside him.

"God, fuck me already," Dean demands, hovering on the brink of an orgasm of epic proportions. It is so good to be with Sam, to take from him everything he needs. To give to him everything he wants. They melt together, like flames dancing.

"I love you," Sam laughs before he does exactly what Dean demands of him, his lips on Dean's. The words are soothing, cooling, healing. Dean drinks them in, tasting them, turning them in his mind.

"Too," he groans, offering Sam his mouth. Lord, he does. So much. He loves Sammy so fucking much!

He cries out his pleasure with Sammy's cock inside him, strong arms holding him through the haze of lust.

He feels whole again when he finally comes.


End file.
